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On Friday, Tom and I are ferried from the Birch Lake Campground boat launch to Loonsong Cabin. The freshwater spray from the bounce of the
A bird’s soft, breast-feather driftswith the falling snowand settles on the fresh layer of white.The fine feather-wisps curve upwardlike cupped hands in meditationopen to the
Black flies swarm in the horrid heat,circle the Nuer mother and her two daughterslying in the sub-Saharan dust of Watt.Knobby knees stick out of skeletal
I clamber up the brick wall.Fingers sink into the cracks of caulkuntil my hands reach leaded frames of glass.Stretching myself across the puzzle piecesof bright
